Brotherhood of Mice
by SlushBro19
Summary: Vincent and Throttle are captured by the Pit Boss. Modo and Charlie have to help them.


"Vince!"

"Vinnie!"

"Bro!"

He knew he should not have done it. He knew it was a trap, a trap set by that blue fish-cheese. He knew it - and he still did it, still fell for it. Even as his bike spin out of control and crashed through the wooden 'dead end' sign and flew out over the Pits, he knew he should have told his bros. It was too late though. All the glory he'd wanted was now so much free fall, him and his bike. He had wanted so much to show 'em what he could do, what Vinnie the Awesome was capable of… what glory would have been his…

Limburger had set his trap well, however. He knew his Martian enemies. He knew what drew them, what they responded to. It was almost too easy truly. So he had set temptation in their path, specifically for that loudmouth, the white mouse. He was the easiest to entice, to dispose of. He rushed into things, without thinking, sure of himself - overconfident. That was to be his downfall - and of the others too. His 'accident' would bring his buddies to the rescue. Then the Pits would claim them all. Haha! Yes, a most ingenious plan! And the best part: if it went wrong, well, the Pit Boss would pay the heavy price!

Throttle pressed a button on the side of his motorbike helmet to zoom in. this was nightfall and ordinary vision was useless here. The white speck at the bottom of the high-sided rocky pit became larger and finally resolved into Vincent.

'He ain't movin'' was his first observation.

'I don't like that,' Modo rumbled, kneeling on the edge and peering in.

'Me neither, bro,' Throttle remarked standing up. 'One of us has to go in and get him and his bike.'

'These are the Pits, Throttle,' Charlie objected. 'You know what happens here.'

'Yes, Charlie. But we don't have a choice. None at all.' Throttle took off his helmet and scratched one light brown ear. 'If the Pit scumbags get him -'

'- we ain't never gonna see him again,' Modo finished smacking his grey fist into the metal palm of his bionic arm.

'What will you do then?' Charlie asked them both. 'He must be unconscious down there. Maybe his bones are broken.' She did not mention the last dreadful possibility: that he was dead.

'Only one thing, babe,' Throttle set his helmet back on his head. 'I rock and rescue'

'But!' Modo started to object.

'No, Modo,' Throttle cut him off. 'You and Charlie will get the bike. I will get Vince.'

'You got it, boss,' Charlie assured him. 'Modo, my truck. We can use that to pull Vinnie's bike out.'

'Good idea, Charlie,' Throttle smiled at her, mouse-fashion, as his bike rumbled, ready to leap into the dark pits.

'Luck, bro,' Modo wished him in his low voice, obeying reluctantly.

'Vincent,' Throttle touched his bro's shoulder. No response. Not even a twitch of a whisker or an ear. This was highly unusual for the ordinarily ebullient white mouse.

'Come on, Vincent. Stop playing with me,' Throttle cajoled him, checking his pulse which was faster than a human's under normal conditions. Which these were not.

Throttle quickly went over Vinnie's arms and legs. Those did not appear to be broken. The ribs might be though. Vinnie was not breathing properly. There were little catches now and again, hitches as of a body in pain. It was only when he touched the back of Vinnie's head that Throttle found the biggest problem.

'Damn!' he whispered, rubbing his blooded fingers. 'You took a quite a wallop, didn't you, bro? Now, where is your helmet?'

'Right here, rodent,' sounded a slightly familiar voice behind him.

Quick as a whiplash Throttle turned, ready to fight - only to have an electric whip wind around his ankle and yank his feet out from under him. 'Hehe! You did not seriously think that you can just drop in and out of my humble abode, did you?'

Throttle went for his laser pistol without dignifying the fat smelly Pit Boss with an answer. Before he could fire a second shot, the Pit Boss laughed, 'I suggest you drop it, your pal here will get it.'

Throttle sighed, twisting around to find one of the resident roughs with a gun against Vinnie's temple. For a split second, just a second, he thought of fighting. That, however, would not help Vinnie. Not now.

'Damn you,' he swore softly, dropping the laser and quickly sending Vinnie's condition to Modo through his antennae as the Pit crew hauled him up and tied his arms behind his back none too gently while Vincent was loaded into the flatbed of an old rusty truck.

'Are you sure that's what he… said?' Charlie asked her grey friend, pausing slightly before the last word, starting up her blue truck. This mind to mind Martian communication thing did not have a verb to describe it, so Charlie used what came close.

'Yeah, busted ribs, busted head. Old Vinnie's not walking any time soon.' Modo shook his head. 'Miracle he's alive.'

'He needs a doctor then.' Charlie shook her head. Her voice became firmer. 'No. More. A hospital.'

'You think a human doctor can or will treat mice? We're not locals, remember?'

'O… I didnt think….' Charlie felt dismay in her heart. Vinnie… 'Head injuries are serious. He… He could become a different mouse.'

Modo stared morosely out front. That thought did not make him feel very good. Vinnie could be a major pain in the butt. He was so self centered that Modo wondered at times what women - mice and human - saw in him. But… Vinnie was also fearless, loyal. Headstrong but a mouse of his word. He would not have left his bros behind - not if it meant showing off while he was at it.

'So, what we going to do?'

Charlie was asking herself the same question.

'Leave him alone!' Throttle hissed at a brawny brown-skinned grey-haired Pit goon poking and prodding at the still-out-cold Vincent. Jerking on the chains that held him bound to the ceiling and floor, he tried to reach across the small distance of the prison cage but came up short. He growled, gritting his teeth, and the reeking slum-dweller laughed. Cackled really. One could hardly call what came from his almost-toothless mouth a real laugh.

'O ye'r a funny one, ain't cha?' He stood up, the whiff of unwashed body and cheap whisky almost making the struggling prisoner gag, and came over. Putting the barrel of his gun under the straining captive's chin, he leaned in close, too close for comfort, and whispered softly, 'You worry about your own skin, mouse. 'Cause you aint gonna have it long. The Pit Boss plans to make a winter coat out of ya. Hehe!' He jabbed the barrel into Throttle's chest to emphasize his last words several times. 'Understand, you useless vermin?'

'I think he does,' the Pit Boss crooned coming up to the cage which stood in the middle of what passed for a village square. Although even to call this dump a village was to overestimate it, by a long shot. This place was the last refuge for the refuse of Chi-town: the pathetically depressed, the truly bad, the really ugly. Luckless killers and thieves ended up here. Pickpockets too old to steal slithered down here. Even whores came - their trade was popular with the often lonely human trash of the city above. They lived any which way since they had no skills to do anything else really. The village reflected that sad pathetic character of its inhabitants: half-fallen tents, leaning huts constructed of odd materials (metal and wood, pick up truck tops, and more), rusty fridges and laundry machines, many of which did not work anyway. No dryers of course: just clotheslines stretched every-where every-which way. Often they impeded traffic but no one seemed to really care. There was no hope, no future here.

That is what Throttle was fighting now. Hopelessness. Even on Mars he had never lost hope, not even during the worst of times when extermination, extinction, were awful close on their tails, nipping pieces here and there.

'I think it is time we resumed our last conversation, vermin,' the Pit Boss hissed, grabbing a hank of fur on his prisoner's head and wrenching it backwards. His mouth right by the mouse's ear, he continued in a malicious sibilant hiss, 'Remember? You and your pals ran away..' Throttle jerked in protest: they never ran. The Pit Boss shook him. 'You broke out and split. You did not stand and fight like men.' He let out a loud hideous laugh. 'No… not men. MICE! You scurried like mice!' Digging his fingers deeper, he turned the helpless mouse's head his way. 'Well, this time, you won't be so lucky. If you want to save your pal's life, you will do as you're told. Got it?' By way of incentive he held up the electric whip, crackling with electricity, and caressed the snarling mouse's face. 'Be a good mouse, and no one gets hurt.'

'O you'll get hurt all right,' Throttle hissed right back at him, hackles rising. 'You are just a bunch of pathetic losers. Hear me? Losers. Who never did anything useful. You are parasites wh-'

He never finished as the angry unshaven Pit Boss reared back and with an angry roar whipped him once across the ear, once across the shoulder, then down all over. Each crackle sent an electric shock through the welts that were left behind, along the furred skin broken and bleeding.

'You will pay for that, rat! You will pay!'

Through it all Throttle hardly made a sound, biting his cheek to keep from screaming at the fierce sharp pain that went on and on, punctuated by the hateful screams of the Pit Boss. he passed out still hearing the spiteful cackling of the underling.

'They are not here,' Modo murmured scanning the dark depths of the Pits. 'No Vinnie. No Throttle.'

'No bikes, either, I would assume,' Charlie added, hands on hips. 'So much for the truck… and we still have not figured out what to do about the medical side of things.'

'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' Modo half turned to her, his right eye starting to glow a dangerous shade of red.

'Pit Boss,' they said as one.

It hurt. Everything hurt. He groaned, his body twitching in pain. Damn… he should not have said anything. He should not have said a thing. That had been a stupid mistake. Under provocation, sure, but…

'So much for Freedom Fighters…' he croaked, his eyes opening just a bit. Gingerly he raised his head to look around. He was still hanging in the chains which were now soaked with his blood. With great care he moved his pounding head side to side. Vincent was out, as before. That was not a good sign, not by a long mile. 'Modo, Charlie, hurry up…' He licked his dry, cracked lips and winced. He must have bitten them in agony. Blood was caked everywhere, most of it on him but a few thin rivulets and drops all over the metal cage. Even Vincent was spattered, a sight he would have appreciated deeply in his machismo soul.

'You're missing out, bro.' He tried to chuckle but that hurt way too much. So he sucked in air instead, bad quality though it was (from the prevalent stench of a mixture of things he did not want to think about). He flexed his fingers, assessing the damage. Just because everywhere hurt did not mean that some parts of him were not functioning. Of course being in one uncomfortable position for a long time was not doing wonders for his health either. Surreptitiously he attempted to stretch his sore muscles, moaning in pain at times. That asshole had worked him over good.

'Vincent, you must be rubbing off on me, bud,' he muttered, moving his wrist about in the manacle slick with blood. Maybe the liquid would allow him to slide one hand free. 'I can't believe I opened my big mouth…'

'Ah, you're back, mongrel,' the now very familiar voice of the Pit Boss entered the cage and Throttle's hearing.

'You again,' he growled, suddenly feeling very alive. An enemy to focus his anger and chagrin on, that was the recipe.

'Yeah, me, rodent.' The Pit Boss lit his whip revealing himself and his armchair sitting right in front of the cage. He chuckled. 'Do you want to finish whatever it was you were gonna tell me before I taught you some manners?'

'Take these off and I'll show you, you maggot.'

'O hoho, the mouse's got spirit eh?' The large man heaved himself out of his chair which creaked as if in relief to be rid of such gross weight. 'Well, we'll test that. Someplace real special.' He turned to bark at the darkness behind him, 'Unshackle him and take him to the Ring.'

'This don't look good,' Modo whispered watching his bro totter on his feet in the ring. 'Look at 'im!'

Charlie nodded. She felt sick: two of her friends were in trouble and there were only two of them to get them out of this hole. They needed a plan, pronto. They had been lucky so far to remain unnoticed by keeping to the many shadows down here. Good thing it was still night, a couple hours till dawn. That also meant it was cooler down here than up above. Stay here too long and a sneeze from an incipient cold would betray you.

'We can't just barge in,' Charlie touched the big mouse's arm. 'Subtlety is called for.'

Modo sighed. He knew that but perhaps it needed saying. Together, him and his bros could simply roll over any opposition. Not that he doubted Charlie's abilities. She had come through for all of them in a clutch.

'So, any ideas?'

Charlie sighed. Modo was not going to like her plan, not one bit. But all she could think about was -

'We must get Vinnie out first, then come back for Throttle.'

To her surprise, the big guy did not argue even though he did not look happy about leaving his bro behind.

'What about their bikes?' he asked, wincing as Throttle took another hit that dropped him. The rowdy crowd cheered and Modo let out a low rumble. Charlie squeezed his shoulder in sympathy.

'There must be a garage somewhere down here. Since they have cars and bikes of their own.' She patted his arm. 'After we get Vinnie out, we can make some noise.'

'Let's go, Charlie-girl.' Modo turned to her with a rather stony expression that hid his hurt. 'I can't watch this no more.'

Throttle parried, panting hard, barely avoiding having his teeth knocked out. His fist connected with a red ear but there was less strength in his strikes by the moment. How long he could continue he had no idea. Modo and Charlie had better be quick. He had sensed his bro's presence not far away and that little distraction had earned him a painful knee. Worth the price though. His buds were here. All was not lost yet.

His sweaty bloody hands grabbed an oily head, almost slipped, and smashed it onto his still hale knee. He wobbled as pain shot up the throbbing leg. That was the moment when something slammed into his side and he went down with a rather nasty thin-looking character on top of him whose breath smelled - stank rather - like last year's laundry. His wiry arms got past Throttle's defences and his hands wrapped around the fallen mouse's neck, beginning to tighten..

What he did not account for was the tail. The long light brown tail that found its way around his balls and began to crush them. A loud piercing yowl came out of the sparsely-toothed mouth of the somewhat human-appearing Pit-dwelling thing that ripped itself away from him, allowing him to roll over onto his side. He had barely caught his breath when a kick to his gut sent him sprawling along the dirty sand that rubbed his back wounds raw.

'Come on, Modo,' he muttered barely aware of looming opponents. 'I don't know how long I can keep this up.'

Charlie heaved the fireball tube to her shoulder and aimed.

'Just say the word, Modo,' she ground out between clenched teeth.

Modo closed his helmet, his bike rumbling beneath him, as eager as him to enter the fray.

'Blow it, Charlie-girl.'

The unexpected sound of exploding oil canisters drew attention of everyone present in the Ring. the watching audience suddenly went real quiet. The fighters too stopped. Throttle closed his eyes for a moment: that was his bro alright and Charlie-girl too. That woman had aim and then some.

'What the hell is that?' the Pit Boss screeched, an abrupt cold snaking its way down his spine.

'You know what,' Modo replied, riding out of a cloud of smoke, his lasers blazing. The Pit scum, cowards at the best of times to say the least, scattered like cockroaches under the kitchen cabinets. Some went scrambling over the seats of the dingy arena, some leapt behind nearby rocks, others hightailed it to the garage - only to find the tires slashed. Not that there were that many cars and bikes there to begin with. Twenty in all: two people - or one woman and one seven-foot tall mouse - could slash a tire here, a couple there in very little time. Cries of dismay rose from that particular quarter and went practically unheard in the general panic.

The only one not panicking after the first shock wore off was the Pit Boss, who wielded his whip as hurried down to the bottom of the arena to grab Throttle. The battered mouse was on his last legs but had enough spunk to throw some dirty sand into the eyes of the oncoming bandit chief. The Pit Boss grunted, flicking his whip. A new welt on an already bruised arm went practically unnoticed. It did not matter now - because in one hand the damned rodent held a gun, one of those hand-held laser ones. The Pit Boss skidded to a stop, face blanching a bit.

'Bro,' Modo called out, his bike leaping through the air and landing beside Throttle, whose full attention was on the now-hesitant dirtbag. His arms shook as he pointed the gun straight at the other's chest, blood dripping from the side of his snarling mouth.

'He aint worth it, bro,' Modo said quietly near his ear. 'Let's get out of here.'

Still Throttle hesitated. He wanted to kill this guy, this slime who had hurt him, and most of all hurt his bro.

"Vinnie?'

'He's out of here. He's safe. Throttle, let's bail, bud!' His voice had a new urgency to it: the Pit Boss's top men were coming out of their stupor and gathering about, rifles and guns ready to fire.

'Charlie?'

'Up top, waiting for us. Come ON!'

And still he did not move. Everything had narrowed down: time, space, this moment. There were only him, his enemy, the gun. Other things did not matter, could be ignored. There was only this one more job to finish: to blow this sucker to hell.

'Throttle!'

'What ch'u waitin' for, eh, mouse?' The Pit Boss taunted him, a sleazy smile spread across his ugly unshaven face. 'A coward, are ye? Come on, shoot me, tough guy!' He took a step back and spread his arms, whip hanging from one hand, not glowing with electricity now. His laughter cut at Throttle's ears, ate at his brain. Slowly he began to squeeze the trigger…

… and then he was jerked backwards by an arm stronger than his, a cold metallic arm that belonged to his bro who was more than just a friend. There had been oaths sworn, pacts made, kinship established. Most of all there was a code, a biker code: you never ever left a bro in need. And boy did he need his bro now!

'Let's hustle, bud,' he croaked from the backseat of Modo's bike as it roared its way through the disintegrating village.

'Sure thing.'

'You made it! Finally!'

Charlie hugged Modo and then gasped at the state of the rider behind him.

'O God! Throttle!'

'T's alright, Charlie-girl,' he whispered, barely holding himself in the seat. He needed, wanted, rest - right now. Curl up and go to sleep. Deep sleep. Dream-less, if he could get that. 'Just a few scratches.'

'I think the truck is a better place for you now, Throttle,' Modo said, propping up the slumping body of his longtime partner. 'This night ain't exactly summer.'

'Uh… I agree,' Throttle nodded, half asleep now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off. 'Yeah… good…'

Modo caught him before he slid off the bike to the ground.

'I have a warm blanket to wrap him in,' Charlie remembered, turning to the truck. 'Here.'

Together they very carefully folded the blue blanket around their second unconscious mouse of the day.

'That's two down, Charlie' Modo looked across the still form at her.

'That's two up from the Pits,' she corrected him softly.

'So, sweetheart, what did I miss?'

Charlie nearly jumped out of her skin at the well-known - but still unexpected -voice behind her.

'VINNIE!' She drew back one arm, holding a long wrench with which she was working on HIS bike. 'Did you ever learn to knock?'

He shrugged, his usual self-satisfied smirk in place, white fur gleaming as if he'd just had a shower.

'I thought I'd stop by…' Quicker than thought he reached out and hugged her tight. '... and say thank you.'

That was so new, so surprising, that Charlie froze for a moment, jaw dropping.

'Did you… did you just say 'thank you'?'

'Yeah, is that so surprising?' Vinnie asked with the most innocent of expressions, his antennae just about vibrating and humming on his head.

'You… you are… the most incredible mouse, Vinnie,' Charlie finally managed to get out past emotions choking her throat.

'Well… with this studly bod, how can I not be?'

'I see that has not changed a bit,' Charlie laughed, smacking his arm lightly. 'Your head must feel fine then.'

'Yeah, it does. How did you fix that?'

'You think I did it?'

'Babe, you are the best mechanic in the galaxy!'

'Only galaxy? My my… we have changed, haven't we? A new found humility?'

Vinnie snorted. 'O pu-lease…!'

Modo's large head appeared in the doorway. 'Is he bothering you, Charlie?'

Vincent threw up his hands dramatically. 'Can't a bro say thank you anymore without someone discussing it into the gr-?'

He never finished that because Charlie took him firmly by the chin and kissed him. Modo whistled, laughed - trying to turn that into a cough which did not succeed - as Vincent at first went stiff with surprise and then chuckled.

'Why, sweetheart, I never knew you cared!'

'Ough, you…'

Now it was her turn not to finish as Vincent spun her around, kissing her now.

'Uh… do you two mind?' came a much quieter voice from the doorway and a brown head appeared instead of Modo's grey one. 'How come you two are having all the fun?'

'Throttle!' Charlie squirmed in Vincent's arms and he let her go. 'You… you…'

'Yes, Charlie-girl, I feel fine. Those regenerative Martian mice genes work just as well here as up there.' He grinned, then it faded away. 'The physical ones anyway.'

Charlie rubbed his upper arm. 'I wish there was some way to help you… but I am not a shrink.'

Modo laid a hand on his bud's shoulder, Vincent came over to cover the other side.

'We're bros, Throttle. That ain't gonna change.'

For once Vincent sounded subdued, serious. The others stared at him.

'What? What'd'I say?' He tried to shrug it off, blushing.

'I cannot believe my ears,' Modo said in wonder. 'Are you sure your head's ok?'

'Heh, let's take him for a ride and see,' Throttle suggested. 'It seems the Pit Boss was not acting alone.'

All four said it at the same time, looking at each other: 'Limburger.'

Laurence Octavius Limburger was sipping champagne (a local specialty as it were on Earth that he thought he could get to like) in his office, mulling over his new deal, when the windows were smashed by three large bikes ridden by three large mice. He looked them over, the rim of his glass hiding his large nose as shards of glass littered his newly-installed carpet.

'And what is the meaning of this?' he asked, keeping his voice calm, collected, businesslike.

'You set me up,' Vinnie chimed in first, his fingers flexing on the handles of his bike. He really wanted to smash this stinky fish's face in.

'Oh? My dear boy…'

'Yeah,' Throttle interrupted him, leaning a little forward in his seat, his face cold. 'You wanted the Pit Boss to do your dirty work.'

'Only he's inept,' Modo finished, his eye blazing red. 'And now you pay.'

'My my…' Limburger leaned back in his very commodious chair which creaked just a little bit. 'A lot of accusations. No proof.' He flicked his fingers.

'You want proof, you bastard?' Vinnie lost his patience - which was not a virtue of his by any means. 'Proof this!' With a push of a button, Vinnie's gun destroyed LImburger's desk. Only ash remained, all in less than a second.

Limburger sighed. 'So predictable.'

'Predict this, cheese-face,' Modo threw him a tape which Limburger put into a player and pressed the 'play' button. As the video rolled, Limburger's face darkened, his fingers tightened around the champagne glass. He did not like what he was seeing - because it was true: he had contacted the Pit Boss, he had paid him well to entice Vincent into chasing after the goons of the Pit Boss, the goons who had then proceeded to drive the white mouse off the road, to herd him towards the Pits, who had at last damaged his bike with a few well-placed shots at the tires and steering, weapons courtesy of Dr. Karbunkle, familiar with Martian tech.

'O that moron…' Limburger sighed tragically. 'No good help these days.' He stopped the tape and would have pulled it out but Throttle's laser hissing in front of his face stopped him.

'Uh-uh, grease-face. I didn't tell you to move, did I?'

'What do you want from me?' Limburger asked in a long-suffering voice of a would-be victim of violence.

'I personally want you dead,' Throttle told him in a hard cold voice, his laser steady and pointed right between the fish's eyes. 'But then the Plutarkians would simply send another one of you stinking perverts down here.'

'Better the Plutarkian we know, than one we don't,' Modo chimed in, a little alarmed by the strong roil of hate he could feel coming off Throttle in waves. Vincent did not seem to be affected one bit - but then few things could dent his ego.

'O I am flattered, Biker Mice. Very flattered. Now if that is all…'

'Not quite,' Vincent laughed. 'We did bring a present with us.'

'O? Do tell.' Limburger's voice was silky but with an undercurrent of alarm: one never knew what these damned mice had in mind.

'We prefer to show, not tell,' Modo drawled drily taking out the Pit Boss's whip, broken in two and letting it drop onto the floor in front of Limburger.

'Think, you misbegotten larvae,' Throttle ground out. 'And remember.'

At last Limburger shook with fear. There was something alarming, something frightening in the deadly stare of that brown Biker Mouse that froze his marrow. Another moment and he'd pull the trigger.

'Let's go, bros,' Vincent broke the tense moment by revving up his large red sports bike. 'I need me some fresh air for the headache I'm gettin'.'

Not taking his eyes off Limburger, Throttle holstered his gun. He looked at his friends, his bros - and grinned.

'Let's rock and ride!'


End file.
